


Pat-a-Cake, Pat-a-Cake

by clearinghouse



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Cute childishness, Fluff, Holmesian Holidays, Love, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 16:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12915732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: Watson brings home a special gift. Holmes deduces who the gift is for.This poem was originally posted on Tumblr for Day 2 of the Holmesian Holidays 2017 Advent Calendar, and is reposted here for archival purposes.





	Pat-a-Cake, Pat-a-Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [Tumblr](https://holmesianholidays.tumblr.com/post/168107216938/2nd-december-clearinghouse95) for the Holmesian Holidays Christmas Calendar.

He says,

“My dear Watson, you have my deepest sympathies,”

with voice low, from across the room, where he stands dreamily,

his violin in his neck,

bow resting under his arm.

He was playing for me, but the gentle piece is complete.

 

I say,

“My dear Holmes, whatever could you possibly mean?”

It has been an uneventful, happy day. No crises,

just the peace of the season,

some hours spent in good friendship.

I sit up in my seat, surprised, but he kindly beams.

 

“It is no use. Who could fail

to perceive that sad package

that you carried home today?

Are you leaving me no choice

but to explain it to you?

Let us deduce what we can

from the data, and the date.

It is a yuletide gift

you have bought, for someone dear,

but it was spurned, rejected,

or else it would not be here.

It’s a cake, wrapped in paper,

and bound in twine. It is signed

for a ‘B’, an initial,

representing someone’s name,

yet not yours, or mine.” I jump!

 

I say,

“Old boy! This is too much. Surely you don’t believe

that that cake is for some person whose name starts with a ‘B’?

Did you never sing any nursery rhymes as a boy?

If you recall pat-a-cake,

one of the most famous songs,

then you will see for whom the cake’s to enjoy!” But he’s beat.

 

I say,

“You really don’t know it? Well, I will help you see!”

I find a good spot on the rug on our floor, stubbornly,

and I squat, and cross my legs as would an eager lad.

“Sit down and do as I do,

all will become clear to you.

It is easy,” I add, summoning the courage to teach.

 

He says,

“My dear Watson?” Sharp eyes are no longer serene.

He is laughing, or is frightened, or growing panicky.

Though it must shock him that I should sink to the floor,

I insist, “it will be quick,

“it is but a child’s game.”

He’s unsure, but puts fiddle to store, and he does not flee.

 

Slowly,

he joins me on the rug, with crossed legs to match me.

I show my palms to him. This move, bashfully, he repeats.

I cross my right hand to call his. Awkwardly, he presses back.

Directing him, not a word,

I move our palms, and we play,

clapping hands, until I fancy he’s on track. Suddenly,

 

I go,

“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man.

Bake me a cake as fast as you can.

Roll it, pat it, mark it with a ‘B’,

and put it in the oven for Baby and me.”

 

As I trust him not to tease,

or to miss a single clap,

he is speechless, marvelling

at the cooperation

of our hands. I feel it, too.

This innocent game unites

his warm, textured palm to mine,

at a tender, cautious speed.

Yet he soon quickens the race,

and the race becomes heated.

I breathe his scent, and breathe, too,

his air of tobacco smoke.

The warmth of our yule-log hearth

highlights him in a glow.

This is for no one but us

ever to know or to see.

 

He says,

“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake,” and recites the full speech.

He is not frightened. To be sure, he is laughing with glee.

We are children again. I grin, pleased, and he smiles sweetly.

The claps of hands resonate,

we edge closer together.

It’s no easy activity, but somehow we succeed.


End file.
